Origins
by chicadoodle
Summary: That was his son; that mutant scared of his own shadow, hiding behind a hologram and pretending to be something he wasn't, trying so hard to fit in with humans and "normal" society. That was his son ; and somebody had hurt him. And they were going to pay.
1. Chapter 1

I am taking some poetic liscense here. Being an avid reader of the original comics -- and having an obsession with Nightcrawler (almost as large as my obsession with Gambit) -- I am taking some of the original history of the character, and incorporating it into the Evolution universe. Therefore, there shall be some inconsistincies, but I liked his original history and origins too much to leave them out :) Also, please note that the original histories of some other characters (such as Beast and Rogue) will be coming into play, as well as some interesting tidbits about the powers and such of characters such as Scott, among others. Enjoy!

Oh! I almost forgot! This fic relies heavily on the comic book Origins for most of it's history concerning Sabertooth – and Wolverine. If you haven't read the comic book, I suggest you go out and buy it – because it is the early history of Wolverine. By reading this fic, I am assuming have either read that comic, or are prepared to find out the official story behind Wolverine – his powers, his parents, his real name.

Enjoy!

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He had never wanted to abandon his son.

That had been his wife's idea, and under the circumstances, he had agreed. What else could he do? There had been too much danger, and he had been so _angry_ with her for hiding her powers. Even when he was trying to be normal, to be _human_, he was thwarted. Thwarted by lies and half truths.

It had hurt, the first time he had seen his son among Xavier's little band of misfits -- trying so hard to be something he wasn't. He hated that stupid watch, the silly little image it let the world see. Not that it was surprising to see his son so willing to lie to the rest of the world -- even more so than most of his comrades. Friends. Did he consider them his friends? He would learn.

And he hated, _hated_, that name. That stupid, insane name. Kurt Wagner. It wasn't what they had chosen for their son, he and Mystique. But it was his name now, and he had to accept that. Not that he was having a very successful time of that.

No matter. He had more important things to dwell on.

He wasn't a thinker, perhaps the reason why his mind kept wandering as he stared down at his son. He had barely gotten there in time to save the teen, and the brutality of the beating had shocked even him, hardened as he was by the years and the wars he had seen.

How old was he now? He could find out if he really wanted, although he knew he had already passed the century mark -- and was barely even into middle age. It hadn't been two centuries -- not yet. He'd been born in the mid 1800's, hadn't he? And Kurt near the turn of the century.

They'd kept him until the 70's -- he'd grown slowly, had been close to 4 years old by then. Did he remember them? Maybe in passing -- he certainly didn't remember how his father looked, or he would have said something by now.

He had tried to hold back, during the times they had come into contact with one another. Kurt had done nothing of the sort, of course, not realizing just who it was he attacked. Luckily, most of his scuffles tended to be with Wolverine, the idiotic maniac. That left him little time to interact with his son.

It was probably for the best, that they had no time to interact. After all, Kurt seemed happy, well adjusted. True, he had few friends, and even those he _could_ claim were distant with him, forcing him to wear that silly little watch of his.

He hated that watch. Hated the fact that his son had to hide.

Shifting in his seat, Sabertooth continued to watch Kurt Wagner. Nightcrawler. His son.

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Kurt slowly blinked open his eyes, staring blearily up at the ceiling. He knew instantly it wasnt the ceiling of his own bedroom as the Insitute, or even back home in Germany. The room around him -- when he took the time to lift his head and glance to the side -- was painted a dirty white, the paint peeling here nd there. He lay on a small twin bed, the covers pulled up to his middle chest. To the left was a plain wall, decorated only with an open door, leading out to what appeared to be a hallway of some sort. To his right was a bare window, void of any decorations or curtains, and it appeared to be the middle of the night outside. Directly across from the foot of the bed sat a ratty old dresser, barely holding itself together. A few articles of clothing had been thrown inside, and he could see half of a white t-shirt and what appeared to be blue jeans in two different drawers, half open. The rest of the clothes -- if there were any -- remained hidden from his sight.

It was when he attempted to sit up the rest of the way that the previous night's dealings came back to him with a punch -- and he certainly felt it physically, as he cried out and collapsed back on the bed. He was vaguely aware of somebody else entering the room, a cool, large hand coming down to cover his forehead. He barely even registered that, however, as he lay there panting for breath and attempting to clear his vision. So dizzy ...

The hand moved over to his right cheek, gently cupping the side of his face. He tried to open his eyes -- really, he _did_. He couldn't find the energy, however, breathing slowing until he once again slept.

When he awoke again he was alone, the door open and sunlight streaming through the window. He couldn't be sure how long he had slept, except that he felt tired -- the kind of tired that came from oversleeping. Rolling carefully over onto his side, Kurt winced at the sharp pain in his side, breathing slowly in and out until the pain had, if not passed, then at least lessened slightly.

Struggling up into a sitting position, he was forced to stop every once in a while as the pain threatened to become too much, but eventually he was sitting upright, and took in his surroundings once more.

There was something ... familiar about this place, even if he couldn't put his fingers on what, exactly, it was. Like his bedroom back at his parents -- something he had woken up to for years, knowing every nook and cranny of the room. He got that feeling from this room -- although he wasn't sure why. He had lived in the same house for nearly his entire life -- as much of it as he could remember, anyway.

That wasn't true. He did remember his biological parents somewhat, although it was hard to reconcile the soft-spoken words and gentle touches with the woman he knew Mystique to be. And then there were the other memories ... they were all fuzzy, distorted with time, but he remembered his father as large man, hands wide and firm, not nearly as gentle as Mystique's had been. But neither had they been harsh -- he had simply not _known_ how to handle a child, and so had been a bit more clumsy that a woman was wont to be. As Mystique had been.

His happiest memories had been with his birth father, although the old bitterness was still there, ever present. Why had he not been good enough? Had it been his oddities, his _freakishness_? His mother hadn't exactly been normal either, but at least she could hide it, protect herself with her powers. He had never been so lucky.

That was why this room looked so familiar. It reminded him of his father. He wasn't sure what it was -- the room itself looked delipidated, old, worn down, and that wasn't at all the image he had of the man he could barely remember as it was. What image had he held? Whatever it was, this shouldn't have reminded him so strongly of the man. But it did.

The smell. It was strong here, almost sweet but not quite. It reminded him of some of his favourite calogne, but with obvious differences. And ... roses. The smell of roses hit his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, blinking rapidly against the sting of tears.

Yes, it was the smell. Like a memory out of a dream ... He'd often wondered if the smell was a combination of both his parents, or simply one of them. Strange, that this room should have that perfect combination to shock him with long buried memories.

Hissing slightly as a sudden jab of pain, Kurt steadied himself against the wall and blinked a few times to clear the stars from his line of sight. He wasn't sure what those boys had done to him -- it had all happened so fast, he had been too stunned to teleport at first, and then too injured to conjure up the energy -- or will -- to use his abilities.

It wasn't the beating that hurt the most, or even the words they had shouted as they did it. It was the memory of wondering whether or not he _deserved_ it. That he had even questioned it ... Professor Xavier would be upset with him. Hell, he was disgusted with himself, and he had _thought_ he knew better.

Apparently he wasn't as smart as everybody thought he was.

The room spun as he tried to take a step away from the wall, and Kurt found himself on the floor, gasping for breath as he barely stayed on his knees, his body wanting nothing more than to collapse bonelessly on to the floor. Finally, however, he braced himself against the side of the bed, forcing himself to his feet, but remaining bent over, most of his weight on the arm that held tightly to the mattress.

He didn't hear the door swing open wider, nor the sound of footsteps approaching. He certainly noticed the feet that entered his line of sight, however, and the hand that descended on the back of his neck, gently kneading the muscles there.

Glancing up sharply, he couldn't help the way his breath hitched, the frightened look that crossed his face as Sabertooth frowned down at him.

"What are you doing up?" The deep rumble of the man's voice seemed to pass right through him, making Kurt shiver as he continued to watch the hairy man, lower lip trembling slightly. "You should be in bed." Kurt blinked in surprise, finding himself being led back to the bed, settling on it with a slight _oomph_.

Sabertooth stared down at him for a moment, squeezing the young man's shoulder perhaps a bit too tightly as he watched his son actually physically _jerk_ out of the hold, scooting away from him on the bed. Pressed up against the headboard, Kurt watched the man frown, lips pressed tightly together and eyebrows drawn in together s he stared at the blue-furred teen.

"You don't need to be afraid of me, Kurt."

Kurt raised his chin defiantly at that, eyes narrowed in sudden anger. "Who said I'm afraid?" It was weak, he knew, and the shaking of his hands betrayed him, as did his quickened breath. And his voice was weak -- almost a rap, a hiss, as he found it hard to speak against the painful rawness of his throat.

Just what the hell had happened to him?

Sabertooth was his son for a moment, fighting back the urge to growl low in this throat. Wouldn't do to frighten the boy even more than he already was, now would it?

But the boy was scared; there was no skirting around that fact. Pressed up against the headboard as he was, it was obvious he was ready to bolt at any moment, and damn the consequences.

Speaking of bolting ...

"Calm down, boy. I'm not going to hurt you."

Kurt snorted at that, and Sabertooth had to admit it probably did sound like an outright lie to the boy. After all, he had never even tried to appear as anything but an out-and-out brute and thug to the boy; although, come to think of it, usually he was too preoccupied with ripping Wolverine limb from limb to pay much attention to his son.

"You're injured. You move around much more, you'll just end up hurtin' yerself." That seemed to calm the kid down a bit, and Sabertooth breathed a sigh of relief that the kid seemed to be trying logic for a spin, for once.

Maybe he wasn't as much like his mother as he acted.

Kurt shifted against the headboard, holding back the hiss of pain that rose to his throat. He couldn't stop his face from scrunching up, however, lips pressing firmly together as his body protested the action rather vehemently.

When Sabertooth reached forward to help him, however, Kurt simply shook his head, shrinking back against the headboard. Sabertooth sighed, nodding as he moved to sit at the foot of the bed, watching his son carefully.

This was going to take some explaining, then.

"Kurt, I need to check your wounds, alright? Make sure everything's alright. Will you let me --?" Sabertooth watched his son carefully, shifting on the bed as he met and held the teen's eyes.

"Where am I?" Sabertooth sighed, turning to glance out the window. It was early afternoon now, the sun streaming in and lighting up the otherwise empty room.

He hadn't been here in years, though he had kept up with the bills – it held too many memories, too many happy times with his son and former wife to just up and abandon.

The people didn't recognize him, of course; and neither did he recognize them. It was a constant truth in his life, that he outlived everybody else.

Except Mystique. Except his son.

"Albion." He finally admitted softly, turning back to make contact with Kurt once again. "In Maine. I brought you here as soon as ... well, as soon as I thought it was safe to move you."

Kurt nodded, swallowing thickly as he remembered those boys, their fists and their shouts. _Demon. Freak of nature. Devil spawn_.

Sabertooth waited a moment longer, keeping eye contact with the boy as he reached forward, one large hand descending on the boy's side, where a thick bandage had been carefully wrapped. Kurt hissed in pain at the first touch, and Sabertooth almost pulled his hand away, but Kurt merely leaned his head back, trying to steady his breathing.

It took them a couple of minutes, but Sabertooth eventually got the bandage off, wincing at the heavy bruising that still covered most of the boy's side. His ribs had been damaged, he knew, and they were just lucky nothing really important had broken. The boy's accelerated healing had kicked in like it had.

For how long the boy had been unconscious, however, it didn't look good. It didn't look good at all.

Kurt stared down at his side with something akin to wonder, though horror might have been a more appropriate word. He hadn't realised just how bad the damage was before, though the fact he had bandages covering both his legs and arms said something for just how violent the boy's must have gotten – even after he had fallen unconscious.

That must have pissed them off then, that he had stopped talking. Stopped asking them to stop. True, after the first couple of minutes he had slipped into his native German, but the nature of his words had remained the same.

_Please stop. Don't. I'm sorry. Let me go._

Swallowing thickly, Kurt glanced away and out the window as Sabertooth set to work, fingers gentle as they moved over his side. The shock of something cold being applied to his overhead skin brought a gasp from his lips and a glance down to see what the man was doing, but he quickly glanced away again as she saw the fresh bandages and ointment littering the bed.

Right. Re-dressing the wound.

"Do you know why they attacked you?" His voice was almost conversational, though Kurt could detect the anger behind it. He simply shrugged his shoulders, though he instantly regretted it as pain lanced through his system like a slingshot. "'Dey were scared, nein?"

Sabertooth nodded, motioning for him to sit up as he began to wrap a new bandage around the boy's middle. "And you think that makes it alright?"

Kurt glanced sharply at the man, but Sabertooth's eyes were fixed on his task, so Kurt glanced once again out the window. "Does it matter?"

Sabertooth glanced up sharply at that, shaking his head with his lips pursed tightly together. He didn't like it, but then again, it didn't really matter, did it?

"There you go. Are you hungry?" Sabertooth sat back, smiling down at the teen as he fingered the used bandage he had removed from his side just a few minutes ago. He did his best to ignore the dried blood decorating the inside of the bandage, did his best to focus on the boy now eyeing him warily.

"Vy? Vy do you care?" Sabertooth sighed, opening his mouth to say something, but Kurt beat him to it. "Vy did you bring me here? 'Ze Prof can take care of me."

"I know. But I don't trust him ... and neither should you."

Kurt merely snorted inelegently at that, raising one eyebrow. Sabertooth smiled at the reaction, though it was a smile laced with sadness, and pain. "I don't trust _any_ telepath's, boy. It's nothing personal."

Kurt nodded – he could accept that. It was the one thing that held _him_ back from completely trusting Professor Xavier – or Jean.

But that didn't make it okay.

"I am a li'l 'ungry, ja."

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A/N: Please let me know what you think of this story! Though I am deeply in love with it at the moment, and have many plants for it's future, I would love to know what you guys think! There's really no point in continuing a story unless people are really interested in it, in my opinion. So review!


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Okay, just to clear up a few things; though I know the number of questions is far more than what I will reveal her. This story relies heavily on the comic book Origins, which reveals the history of Wolverine. It also reveals the early history of Sabertooth – I've read up on some interviews with the author, and he admits that the likelihood of one of the characters in the comic being Sabertooth is very large, though he had not initially intended it to be that way. However, it's my story, yeah? Therefore, I'm taking some poetic liscence :) _

_One more thing. I am taking the liberty of wiping all accents for telepathic communication. I figure that inside someone's head, they sound as if they were speaking their original language, yeah? Therefore, excuse the fact that Kurt doesn't seem to have a german accent when speaking telepathically with the Professor._

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Sabertooth knew how to cook. Would wonders never cease?

Kurt glanced up at the man as he chewed on another mouthful of spaggeti, chewing slowly as he wondered just what the next surprise would be.

"Is the food alright?" Kurt blushed, nodding as he glanced back down at his plate. Right. He had been eating a bit slow, hadn't he? "You're mother always claimed by pasta was the best she ever had."

Sabertooth grinned, watching as Kurt's head whipped up so fast it was a wonder he didn't get whiplash. "Y-you mean Mystique?"

Sabertooth nodded, picking idly at his own pasta as he watched his son. "We lived here, the three of us." Sabertooth glanced around the bare kitchen, wincing slightly. "It looked a bit better, back then. Hom-ey. She's better at that sort of thing than me." He turned his attention back to Kurt, smiling slightly at the confused look on the teen's face.

"The three of you?" Sabertooth nodded, taking a sip from the beer to his left before letting a deep sigh escape his lips. How long had it been since he had spoken of that time? Of the family he'd had, for however short a time.

"Yeah, you me an' her. Used to have a crib, over there --" He pointed vaguely at the far left corner of the room, smiling. "She never wanted to let you out of her sight – always afraid something would happen. Afraid somebody would see you." Sabertooth frowned, fingers tightening around his fork as his other hand clenched into a fist. "With good reason."

Kurt was simply staring at him now, and Sabertooth sighed, standing to his feet and carrying his own plate over to the sink. It was old, just like the rest of the house; more modern than when they had first moved in, back at the turn of the century, obviously. But still out-dated by today's standards.

The house had undergone some changes over time, the new replacing the old. Usually it had been he who had made those installations; even as the town grew up around them, they had to be careful that people wouldn't catch on. Wouldn't notice that they didn't age, at least not like "normal" people.

They could have moved, could have --

"You're not my father." Sabertooth laughed at that, shaking his head as he turned to face his son, elbows resting against the counter that he leaned against.

"Denial isn't a good look for you, kid. But I guess you get that from Xavier, eh?" Sabertooth moved over to the fridge, drawing out a carton of milk and moving over to refill the teen's glass even as he continued speaking.

"Give it a couple more days, and I'll take you back to New York. You shouldn't move 'round too much 'till then."

It was as he was replacing the milk in the refrigerator that Kurt spoke again. "It's that smell." Sabertooth glanced over his shoulder in confusion, busy eyebrows drawn together, but Kurt was no longer looking at him. Instead, his eyes had wandered to the one window that adorned the room, gazing out to the street beyond.

It wasn't a particularly spectular view out the window, and the window itself could have done with a good cleaning; taking up a large part of the right wall of the kitchen, the view was just like any other small town street, but Sabertooth had the distinct impression Kurt's attention wasn't caught so much by the street itself as by whatever thoughts were running through his blue little head.

"Smell?"

Kurt glanced sharply back to him, golden eyes narrowing slightly. "In the room. Roses and .. something else. I .. I think I remember it."

Yes, Sabertooth fit the bill,didn't he? Large and hairy. And his hands were probably the same size, though they felt different now that he was older. Now so small that the man seemed like a giant ... though he was still far too large, in Kurt's opinion. Though, most people seemed oversized to the small mutant.

He didn't think of his father often; perhaps because of the ever-present hurt of knowing he hadn't been good enough.

And besides, his foster parents had always been enough; always filled that void. Why mess things up by asking about his birth parents?

But sometimes ... sometimes he would wonder. He knew where he got his complexion; one look at Mystique put that question to rest. And, perhaps, he could understand his fur now, as well – Sabertooth was certainly hairy enough.

But he didn't want to admit it; didn't want to admit he got _anything_ from those two. Looking like them was bad enough; all they had ever shown was brutality and serious anger management problems.

How could he have that in him?

Sabertooth sighed, moving to sit beside the teen and leaning his elbows on the table, chin resting in his hands so that his fingers were splayed on either side of his cheeks. Turning his head to inspect the teen, he stayed quiet for a couple of minutes before finally straightening in his chair.

"We should probably get you back in bed. Come on, kid. Up we go." Sabertooth helped the teen to his feet, one arm wrapping around slender shoulders as he helped the mutant across the room and down a small hallway that held only two rooms. To the left and the right were one door each, the hallways ending in a blank wall that had once held a painting, he remembered. It was to the right door that he led Kurt, back into the bedroom he had inhabited for the first 70 years of his life.

Not that the kid knew his own age. For all appearances, he had started aging properly once safely in Germany. Sabertooth had noticed it every time he checked in on the boy, safely out of view of the family that had taken him in. Always bigger, talking and laughing and running around as fast as his legs could carry him.

He'd stopped checking after a while; it hurt too much, seeing his son, hearing him call somebody else father.

But this room; this room had always been Kurt's, back before that damned name and German accent; back before Xavier had sunk his claws into the boy, filled his head with false dreams and visions that could never come true.

They made slow progress over to the door, and even slower settling the teen in. After a couple of minutes, however, the boy was safely tucked in beneath the covers, and Sabertooth paused at the door, hand hovering over the light switch. "Kurt ... we'll leave tomrrow, maybe the next day. Just take it easy until then, alright? I"ll wake you up for breakfast."

Kurt nodded, shifting on the bed and curling his legs up until he resembled nothing so much as a ball of fur. Sabertooth watching him for another moment or two, before sighing and flicking the light switch off, the door closing behind him until only a thin crack of light was revealed.

Kurt watched that sliver of light for some time, before finally drifting off to sleep.

He wasn't sure when he woke, only that it was well past morning, well past time for school. His body protested sharply against any movement, however, reminding him just where he was ... who he was with.

Sabertooth was nowhere to be seen this time, and he thanked God for small favors as he pushed himself up to a sitting position, breathing slow and steady as he fought not to cry out.

He must have made some sort or noise moving around, for it didn't take long for Sabertooth to knock lightly on the door, before swinging it the rest of the way open.

"How you feeling? Better?"

"A little." Kurt admitted with a smile, shifting slightly where he sat against the headboard of his bed. He couldn't hide the wince that crossed his features, however, and Sabertooth smiled slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest, raising one busy eyebrow in question.

"A little." Kurt repeated, grinning weakly as he sagged back against the headboard of his bed.

"Right." Sabertooth moved over to the dresser, pulling out a pair of of black sleeping pants and a white long-sleeves shirt. "Let's look at those dressings, and then get you changed."

Some time later Kurt found himself laying on a couch at the other end of the house, wrapped in a blanket as he watched Sabertooth carry out a small plate of sandwiches.

"Just eat what you can, save 'em for later." Sabertooth set the plate on the table just in front of the couch, straightening with a small groan. A whispered, "I'm getting too old for this," brought a small smile to Kurt's lips, even as he watched the older mutant warily.

Settling himself on the end of the couch, Sabertooth watched his son quietly for a couple of seconds as Kurt made no move to touch the food. Swallowing thickly, he looked away finally. "It's not poisoned, you know."

Kurt made a startled noise in the back of his throat, blushing hotly. "I know! I's just ... I'm not very hungry, ja?"

Sabertooth nodded, flashing a sad imitation of a smile at the younger mutant as he pushed himself once again to his feet.

"Just eat what ya can."

Kurt watched the larger mutant make his way out of the room, fingers twisting in the blanket as he considered the plate of food in front of him – and his options.

He could try to teleport, but he knew from personal experience how painful it could be; how detrimental to his health when injured. The energy alone would leave him barely able to stand, and the movement involved could very well open several of his wounds – or create new ones. And without knowing the exact nature of his wounds ...

No, teleporting would be a _very_ bad idea. He'd tried it once, after one of the villagers back in Germany had gotten hold of him; even then, with far fewer injuries and a visit from an official doctor, he hadn't been able to teleport more than a few feet at a time.

And where was he supposed to go? His watch was missing; probably destroyed in the fight.

_Fight_. Didn't that make it sound like he'd had some part in the violence? No, it hadn't been a fight – he hadn't fought back.

At least he was awake now; who knew what the man would have done had he remained unconscious much longer. He'd heard stories ... And he had first hand experience with just how violent Sabertooth could really be.

Victor Creed. He'd heard Logan call the man that once, in a private conversation with the Professor he probably shouldn't have been listening in on.

Actually, he'd gotten two weeks of extra danger room sessions when Logan had picked up his scent ...

Creed. That was what his name was supposed to have, then. Not that he could imagine either Mystique of Sabertooth – Victor – as parental figures. Actually, that was a rather frightening thought – being raised by those two. Would he have turned out like Quicksilver, or Toad?

Had they named him? That was a shocking concept, and Kurt's hands tightened around the blanket at the sudden thought. Not abandoned, not cast away as soon as he was born; no. From what Sabertooth had said, they had actually kept him around for a while. Tried to take care of him.

He didn't blame them for casting him away eventually – though how he had gotten to Germany was still a bit confusing.

But they had a _house_, a _home_. And, apparently, had at least _tried_ to make it work. Tried to raise him. Even if it _had_ failed miserably, it was an undeniably good feeling that warmed his chest now, making Kurt smile slightly.

When Sabertooth checked in on his son some time later, he wasn't all that surprised to find the teen fast asleep. He _was_ a bit unnerved at the sight of the untouched plate of sandwiches, though it shouldn't have surprised him. The kid had been through an ordeal, and not just physically.

He'd seen a lot in his life; done things he knew he shouldn't be proud of. He'd reconciled his place in society a long time ago, however; only the strong survived, and he didn't have any sense of normality or companionship to fall back on. He _was_ alone, more so than any pathetic little human teenager could claim. _They_ were weak, but they had so much to fall back upon, and eventually even they found a place in the world.

People like him? They had to carve out a place in this world. It wasn't the same with all mutants; some could blend in easily with the rest of humanity. And he could, sometimes, if only for a short while. Eventually, though, people started noticing; started taking note of how young he still looked, even after all those years living among them. Confusion would turn to superstition, then fear, then anger at what they couldn't understand.

Eventually, he stopped trying to fit in – at least for a while. Let the Animal in him take over, make his decisions for him. He stopped seeing people, started seeing obstacles to his immediate goals. Those goals were always short-term, centered around him and his most immediate needs and wants.

His most recent marriage had been a moment of weakness – but even after he had discovered her true nature, things hadn't been terribly bad. There had been moments of anger, but at the same time, moments of hope. She was long-lived, too, and perhaps their son would be, as well. And the thought of having a family to fall back on like that ... it was enticing.

It had fallen apart. Everything always did. But he still had those years ... almost a century. Over fifty years, with somebody to turn to. 70 years, watching his son grow. Laugh. Love.

He should have known the kid would be pulled in by Xavier's fantasies – he'd always been happy as a child, to the point where he would wonder where the tears were; the sadness that came over even the best of them.

Had he been like that as a child? No, his father had made sure his childhood was anything but happy. He hadn't always succeeded, though – times with James and Rose had been the happiest of his life.

He had to struggle, now, to remember them. The memories were fuzzy, going in and out.

James had been his friend from the beginning, he remembered that much. There had never been much prejudice between them; the slow burn of jealousy as he got older, yes, as James returned to his father's mansion on the hill, and he to the shack he shared with his father.

But in the beginning, it had been just he and James. Rose too, though her participation had always been that of an older sister, a caretaker. Not a friend, not really. And as he had gotten older ... ah yes, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Which wasn't saying much.

And in a way, Kurt reminded him of James. That innocent look, the way he smiled so openly no matter what you said, what you did. Always so willing to forgive.

They were fools, the both of them. But they were endearing fools. And he saw James more and more in Kurt.

It was, perhaps, the realization of just what James had become that made that comparison as frightening as it was; he wouldn't wish that on anybody.

Though it was hilarious watching Xavier attempting to control him. That _animal_ couldn't be controlled; he had proven that the night he killed his parents.

Shaking his head, Sabertooth tucked the blankets more securely around his son's sleeping form before walking outside, a deep breath of clean country air calming his jittery nerves.

It wasn't Canada; wasn't home. But it was close enough.

Kurt woke some time later to the sound of voices drifting through the open doorway leading into the kitchen. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he took in with some discomfirt the sight of the darkening sky, the sun rapidly descending.

So _tired_ ...

Wincing slightly as he stood to his feet, he wavered there for a moment before slowly placing one foot in front of the other. He knew he was capable of moving around on his own; teleporting, no. But he'd survived worse injuries than this back in Germany from the villagers, the other boys his age – and older.

Hell, even the younger had learned quick enough he wouldn't fight back.

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Kurt moved to the left side of the doorway, turning his right ear toward the kitchen as he strained to hear the conversation taking place in the other room.

" ... this place. I mean, seriously _mon ami_, it's a _dump_." A thick New Orleans accent met his ears, and Kurt swallowed convulsively as he recognized the voice of Gambit.

"Was there something you _wanted_, cajun?" A growl from Sabertooth, and Kurt winced at the anger layering the words. Gambit seemed unconcerned, however, laughing the dangerous tone off easily.

"Ah, _mon ami, _you've gotta learn to lighten up." Gambit cleared his throat, and Kurt heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Sitting down? Or standing up?

"Gambit ..." There was an unspoken threat in that one word, and the southerner finally gave a heavy sigh.

"Xavier's on 'is way. What 'ave you done to the old geezer this time, Victor?"

_The Professor!_ Kurt felt a sudden stab of elation, followed quickly by an uneasiness that he woudn't quite place. Xavier wasn't coming alone – right? So why was he so uneasy?

A quick indrawn breath, as if Sabertooth was about to speak, followed by the sudden sound of approaching footsteps was all the warning Kurt had before a large hand suddenly wrapped around his upper arm.

_Scheisse_.

Legs buckling beneath him, Kurt was left to rely solely on the strength of the larger mutant as he was helped back to the couch. "What the _hell_ are you doing up, kid?"

Sabertooth's hand tightened around his arm before disappearing altogether, both his hands coming to rest on Kurt's back and help him back on to the couch and on top of the caccoon of blankets he had been enveloped in earlier.

"Victor?"

Sabertooth ignored the query from behind him, smoothing back the dark blue-black hair on his son's forehead as the boy leaned weakly back against the couch, arms wrapping around himself defensively as he shivered slightly.

_But it's not cold in here_. Sabertooth eyed the boy critically before his large hands wrapped around two thin shoulders, and he helped the small mutant to once again lay down on the couch, the blankets coming up and around his small frame.

Kurt shifted against the couch to his back, the hands at his front, turning his head slightly to catch a glimpse of the other mutant in the room, who had yet to enter fully; Gambit leaned against the door frame leading into the room, the kitchen behind him dark and forboding. A pair of glasses shielded his eyes, but Kurt still felt the penetrating gaze even through those lenses.

Sabertooth sighed, hands lingering over Kurt's blanket-covered sides as he stared at the boy, who was in turn staring at _that damned cajun_.

He hadn't been invited, had just barged his way inside without so much as a knock or a hello.

No, that wasn't entirely true. The man _had_ announced his presense has he had entered, loud enough that Sabertooth had worried he had woken Kurt. The boy hadn't given any indication that he had woken up, though, so Sabertooth had quickly moved the cajun into the kitchen – hoping to keep Kurt's location a secret.

But if Xavier knew where he was ...

Turning his head ever so slightly, Sabertooth lowered his eyed to the floor as he spoke. "How far out are they?" His raised his eyes to meet his son's golden globes as he finished speaking, one hand braced on his thigh and the other on the edge of the couch near Kurt's stomach.

"Twenty minutes? Just got the call myself." Gambit moved further into the room, and Kurt stiffened slightly as the man leaned his hip against the couch, just behind his head. "What's the Elf doing here?"

"He's injured." Sabertooth rose to his feet with a grunt, and Kurt was vividly reminded of the comment the man had made earlier – _I'm getting too old for this_. How old was the man?

Of course, that begged the question of how old _he_ really was; they'd had to guess, when his adoptive parents had found him beside the river. It had been a good guess, he supposed, and probably pretty close to the mark. But still a guess. It would be nice to know how old he _really_ was.

But that didn't matter, because Sabertooth's hand had descended once again over the top of his head, and he was carding his large fingers through Kurt's hair once again. Kurt's tail flicked, the first sign of life it had given since he first woke up here, and he had to admit the feeling _was_ nice, fingers rubbing against his scalp.

_It was familiar_. It shouldn't have been; nobody in Germany had every done anything even remotely similar. The implications of that statement, however, were not something he was ready, _or willing_, to face.

Not yet.

"And he's here because ...?" Gambit let his words trail off into nothingness, arms tightening where they were crossed over his chest as he shifted his hip slightly against the hard back of the couch, head tilting slightly.

Yes, the kid was hurt. He could see that – _anybody_ could see that. Whoever was responsible, had certainly done a number on the kid. But that still didn't explain his presence in _this_ house; with _Sabertooth_, of all people.

The sound of tires skidding against a wet surface drew his attention, and Gambit frowned as he turned his attention in that direction, straightening and letting his arms fall to his sides.

"I though you said they were still a way off." Sabertooth growled, sniffing the air experimentally. Yes, there it was – that damned stink. _Wolverine was here._

"A miscalculation." Gambit spoke softly, moving so he was hidden behind a corner, out of sight of the front door. The sound of footsteps could now be heard, and not surprisingly Xavier himself seemed to be nowhere within range; probably stayed in the car, out of harm's way.

Hissing out between his teeth, Sabertooth rose to his feet, fingers trailing off his son's head. A scowl was fixed on his face now, and Kurt hesitated for a moment before opening his mouth.

"Is 'de Professor here?" He met the eyes of his birth father head-on, forcing down the spike of fear that went through his system like an arrow as he met those angry eyes.

Sabertooth smirked slightly, shrugging his shoulders. "His guard dog is." Seeing the confusion on the younger mutant's face, Sabertooth elaborated. "Wolverine."

Kurt's mouth formed a small O, and Sabertooth frowned. "You still s houldn't be moved, but I doubt the idiot's gonna listen to me."

Kurt couldn't help but smile at that; not many people got away with insulting Mr. Logan, but it didn't surprise him that Sabertooth would be one of those rare individuals. The two men seemed evenly matched, after all.

Shifting on the couch, Kurt made to sit up, only to freeze at a low growl from the older man. "Lay. Down." The words were clipped and angry, and Kurt slowly lowered himself back into a laying position on the couch, his eyes never leaving those of Sabertooth.

Sighing, Sabertooth knelt down next to the couch once again. "You're still injured, Kurt. If you move 'round too much ... you could reopen your wounds."

And it took every ounce of his self control not to just slap the kid upside the head, knock him out rather than _explain_ all of this.

He wasn't cut out to be a father – wasn't made to be a good person. And unlike Wolverine, he actually _accepted_ that. Too bad the beast could learn to accept that; they could do some serious damage, the two of them.

But not as long as James continued to live in a fairytale land.

Sniffing the air experimentally once again, Sabertooth met Gambit's eyes as he once against stood to his feet, facing the door way as the front door was blasted open, hitting the kitchen counters with enough force to have seriously injured anybody who might have been standing in the way.

"Always so dramatic, _boy_."

He shouldn't have said it; making Wolverine angry was the last thing he should be doing. But it was second nature now, insulting and egging the other man on. Bringing out the beast in him.

"Wolverine!" That from Kurt, and Sabertooth glanced down sharply at the boy. _Did he see this as a rescue, then?_

"You alright, elf?"

"Yeah, just hurts." Kurt shifted on the couch, eyes going between Wolverine and Sabertooth uncertainly.

_Your still too weak ..._

_You could reopen your wounds._

Kurt bit down on his lip, leaning his head against the arm of the couch as he lowered his eyes to the ground.

Moving over to the couch, Sabertooth lowered himself down into a crouching position, keeping his eyes on Wolverine as he lay a hand on Kurt's upper arm, shifting his eyes to meet Kurt's as he frowned.

Meeting his eyes, Kurt smiled. "I'm okay. Really." Seeing the disbelief in his eyes, Kurt sighed. "It just hurts to move."

Sabertooth gave a low growl at that. "Then don't fuckin' move." He growled out, his hand moving up to card through Kurt's hair. Kurt nodded, wincing at the pounding in his head that only seemed to get worse with the movement.

"What the _fuck_ is going on here?"

Kurt's head jerked in Wolverine's direction at those harsh words, and he gave a small whimper at the sharp pain that shot through his head. The hand on his head followed the movement, fingers curling around the side of his head and tightening there as Sabertooth drew it back toward him and down slightly.

"Shut it, wolf-ie. The kid needs to sleep." Kurt smiled weakly up at Sabertooth, but Sabertooth simply continued to frown down at him.

"Elf?" Wolverine's voice had a dangerous quality to it, and Kurt swallowed as he remembered the battles he had witnessed between these two. Violent. Bloody. He hadn't been afraid of Sabertooth alone, on those battles; Wolverine had seemed like some kind of animal, barely even seeming to recognize him. At times, it had seemed like he couldn't even comprehend their words.

He didn't want a repeat of that here.

Shifting his head up to stare at the Wolverine from this new, odd angle, Kurt did his best to ignore the sharp, shooting pain in his head, or the way his vision blurred slightly, dark spots appearing on the outside of his vision. "I'm okay, _herr_ Logan." Licking suddenly dry lips, kurt continued to stare at the man for a moment, before shifting his head back down and wincing at the dull throb of his head. "I'm jus' tired, _ja_?" The last was whispered, and Sabertooth smiled as he realised it had been meant for his ears more than Wolverine's.

"Tired." Wolverine dadpanned, eyes shifting between the two with a narrowed gaze. "Elf, what the _fuck_ do you think you're doing? This isn't a goddamn _game._"

Kurt swallowed thickly, preparing to raise himself up into a sitting position, but Sabertooth once again held him down easily with one hand, a stern glance all that it took for Kurt to get the message.

"Get your fucking hands off him."

Kurt's breath caught in his throat, recognizing the threat in that gruff voice easily.

It wasn't his place – this grudge of theirs, it went back a long way. Any idiot could see that; they fought constantly, it wasn't his fault if they started fighting here.

Except that the only reason Wolverine was here ... was to "rescue" him.

But he'd already been rescued once ... Sabertooth had seen to that. Drawing a shaky breath, Kurt shifted on the couch, curling up on his side. "I'm tired Wolverine." He whispered, knowing full well the other mutant could hear him. "Could I have another blanket, Da'?"

He hadn't even been aware he was going to say it until the words were out of his mouth, and he blushed at the surprised look on Sabertooth's face, though that smile quickly disappeared at the sound of an indrawn breath from Wolverine's direction.

Sabertooth smirked, rising to his feet with a glance in Wolverine's direction. "Sure, hold on."

Sabertooth moved to a cupboard set into the wall that Kurt hadn't noticed before, drawing out a heavy white blanket before kicking the door closed once again. Draping the heavy blanket across Kurt's small frame, he set to tuckinig the edges in around the blue furred mutant before once again meeting the eyes of his personal rival.

Wolverine was still staring at Kurt's huddled form, however, though he knew he should have been paying more attention to the _animal_ leaning over him.

_Da_. Dad. Father. That was how the elf had referred to him, and he knew Kurt well enough to know he didn't make jokes like that. _Not like that._

"_Elf_ ..." It came out as a low growl, but Wolverine couldn't worry about the kid's feelings right now, not when he was referring to that animal as – trust him like that --

"_My son_ needs his rest, Wolf-ie. He'll be back at your precious Institute soon enough." Sabertooth stood to his feet, moving to block Wolverine's line of sight. _"He cannot be moved._"

Wolverine shifted his gaze to Sabertooth, before once again staring at the couch – or at least what he could see of it around the bulk now obstructing his view.

"Fine. Keep 'im" He growled out, words clipped as he took a step toward Sabertooth and growled low in his throat. "You're welcome to the fucking little traitor."

Kurt gasped softly, rising u on his elbow, ignoring the pain that lanced through his body as he stared at Wolverine's retreating form. "_Herr_ Logan?" He called out weakly, hand moving up to rest on the arm of the couch.

"Kurt!" That from Sabertooth, who was instantly there to force him back into a lying down position. Kurt merely allowed himself to be moved dumbly, not sure what else to do, his mind quickly fading into shock.

Gambit moved out from his position behind the corner, staring down at the small blue mutant on the couch, who in turn stared at the ceiling without really seeming to see it at all.

"_Mon ami_, you got some 'splainin' to do."

**Some Translations: **

_**Scheisse: Kind of like dammit, or other less appropriate words :)**_

_A/N: For those of you who **have** read Origins, some of Sabertooth's memories are obviously off-kilter from what they should be – I know. Bear with me! It doesn't make sense that Wolverine would lose all his memories, and Sabertooth retain all of his. Thus, I'm making some slight alterations; I didn't like the idea of Sabertooth not remembering **anything**, especially with the ideas running amok in my head. _

_I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, and there's more to come soon :) Now to run off and write some more of my Scott Summers fic ... ah, the possibilities running around there are a bit frightening ... but in a good way :) Enjoy!_


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